I’ve been sitting in the same corner of the same coffee shop staring at the same page for hours now. I’ve reached the dregs of my coffee (and swallowed them too for good measure). I’ve started to massage my neck, praying my back won’t kill me later (though I know it will). The page is still blank.

It takes me a minute to notice he’s standing there. He’s striking, but he has a goofy grin – and he’s awkwardly staring at me. I look around, but no one else seems to notice he’s there.

“Can I help you?”

“Just stopped by to talk with you.” He sits down across from me.

I raise my eyebrows and point to my nose.

He nods, and lifts my coffee cup. “You had to drink it all,” he says on a heavy sigh. Then he extends his hand to me.

Reluctantly, I take it and shake. Then he starts to talk. And he talks.

He tells me where he was born, how many siblings he has, how he grew up, why he enlisted, his deepest fears, his first love, his longest love, his path of self-discovery, and his newest love. Then, after a deep breath, what he will be, where he will be, who he will be with, and why.

I nod, my eyebrows creased, still reeling from the fact that this radiant, golden stranger is talking to me at all.

But someone clears their throat next to me, and I don’t have time to process before I am thrown into confusion again. She smiles brightly, runs a hand through a messy mane of hair, pushes into the booth beside me, and speaks as if we’re old friends.

She keeps asking me about moments as if I remember them… As if I was there with her. And oddly enough, I find I do remember them. And vividly. All of her moments: the joyous, the fun, the hilarious, the heart-breaking, and the tragic. Right up until her death.

“It was fairly gory,” she says matter-of-factly. And I blink, startled, because at first I think she can’t be serious. But then I remember it. Vividly. And I’m glad I’d already finished my coffee, because my stomach is so knotted at the thought that I think I wouldn’t be able to drink anymore.

But I don’t even have time to dwell on it before two more people show up. A boy and a girl. He is a simmering fire, and she is as relaxed as the breeze. Still, his arm is slung protectively around her. She’s confident, but I can tell in an instant that she is genuine and kind. She is someone I would aspire to be.

They’ve been through more than I ever have. Their stories soar and then plummet through successes and then new trials. And they all treat me like I’m worth something more than a blank page. And the constant confusion I’ve had since the golden man first approached me starts to clear enough for me to find my words.

At the next pause in their steady recollections, I break in, “And what did you say your names were?”

The first stranger nods at my computer, drawing my eyes back down to the forgotten screen. There are words on the page. Their names, their histories, their loves, their deaths – their stories. My story.

A few weeks ago, someone posted in our writers group on Facebook asking about how characters work, everyone’s process for creating them. Or meeting them, as it were. I tried to write it out in a paragraph, I really did. But this happened instead.

And I should also probably say it wasn’t always like this. I used to do 50 page long character sheets, asking questions – trying to figure out how they fit into the world, into the story. I wanted them to be different and unique, and creating them didn’t come naturally. And in all honesty, I have no clue why it changed.

But one day, I woke up from a dream, and my head was a lot more crowded. They’ve been the most talkative cast of characters I’ve ever met. And they just keep coming. (I just met a whole other group of people in this universe, and they’re being just as nosy and invasive as everyone else in this world.) But everyone’s process is different, and frankly the assertiveness of these characters still confuses me, because I don’t quite get how it works.

But I’m grateful for them, however confusing their creation and existence might be. Hopefully I can pay them back by making sure their story is told.

I cannot deny that the sight of that battered body tugs on my heartstrings.

His flesh is maimed, so it is unidentifiable as flesh. The color has been pounded black and blue and blood flows like tears from still open wounds. What scraps remain of his clothes are so stained by the mud and blood on his body that I can’t tell where the fabric ends and the flesh begins. His arm is bent at an angle that sends pains of sympathy shooting down my own. The sight is so gruesome, I simultaneously want to stare and avert my eyes.

Self-consciously, I brush my shirt, as if I may have dirtied or bloodied it. It is pristine – as always – but the sight feels so unclean, I feel it must be affecting me. I force my eyes back to the road.

I cannot help him. There is nothing I can do. What good am I to a stranger on the side of the road? All of the reasons flood my mind at once.

I haven’t the constitution. My stomach roils, and my body aches with pains that aren’t my own, just from the sight. And even though I now stare at the pavement instead, I can’t unsee it. An impression lingers behind my eyelids. It’s all I can do to keep my stomach from upending everything I’ve eaten today. I know I couldn’t go near him and keep it together.

I haven’t the initiative. I don’t know where to start. Do I call someone? Do I walk for help? Do I try to save him alone? Staunch the bleeding, cradle his head? If I don’t know where to start, perhaps it would be better not to start at all.

I haven’t the strength. I couldn’t lift him alone. There is no sign of anyone for miles. Even if I managed to haul him onto my shoulders, I’d collapse myself before I reached help. I’d cause him more pain trying to move him than he is in lying there. And what use would I be if my efforts killed him? I’d carry that weight on my shoulders far longer.

I haven’t the time. My day never stops moving. My mind won’t stop moving. My feet wouldn’t stop moving either when there is so much to be done. It isn’t that he’s unimportant. Just that there are so many things. So many important things. He’s only one of many.

I haven’t the money. I can barely be responsible for my own health, how could I take on someone else’s? He’ll need more mending than I can afford. I’d exhaust all of my resources trying to get him help. It would leave me nothing to fall back on. And what if nothing comes of it? What if he dies anyway?

I haven’t the ability. Someone else might. To actually do some good. I have nothing to give. I am nothing. I am no one. I am unnecessary. Inessential. Of no use. No purpose. What good could I be to him when I’ve never been any good to anyone before? I might as well be him –beaten, bloodied, and dying – for all the good I could do.

And besides…

He probably isn’t even still alive.

So I glue my eyes to the road below my feet. I grit my teeth. I curse the world for being so cruel. And I pass by on the other side.

Does it sound terrible? I hope so.

This summer, I heard a phenomenal sermon in Thailand about the good Samaritan. And it got me thinking about the story, about the characters we see so little of, so I jotted a few lines down. And then, in the first week of school, President Perrin discussed the parable in chapel. And the need to finish this struck me. At midnight. In the middle of the work week.

All we know of the priest and the Levite in Luke is that they “saw him and passed by on the other side.” On the surface, with such little explanation, they seem callous and uncaring, but in my life I rarely encounter people so cruel. So, then, why did they do it? Why pass by? Why not do something?

And once I find myself writing down all the excuses that could have gone through their heads as they willfully ignored a dying man, it makes me question: how many things do I see and pass by in my life? And how can I be more aware of those hurting or in need? How can I be a light, have mercy, do as the good Samaritan?

Because I want to be sure that I never glue my eyes to my own feet, grit my teeth, and pass by on the other side.

In an effort to write more frequent blog posts, I drew a prompt from “642 Things to Write About” by the San Francisco Writer’s Grotto, which I highly recommend. It quickly became a short poem instead of the longer flash piece I expected. Please enjoy.

Though I probably didn’t need to get distracted by a writing prompt this weekend, sometimes inspiration can’t be discouraged. I opted to go ahead and write a short piece for my friend Ray’s picture prompt (found here: First ever Ray-Sponsored Writing Picture Prompt!). Even though it’s a couple weeks late. And even though I may not have needed a short piece to distract from my larger projects. I just couldn’t help but enjoy writing it all the same. I hope you enjoy.

He affixed more than just a handful of flowers to the wall. He collected all the pain and grief in his mind and appended every petal to a memory. After all, the memories were the greatest burden to carry, and a painful burden. He was a coward; instead of holding her forever in his thoughts, he would rather forget her. He would rather leave her there with the flowers on the ledge where he had last seen her.

Hesitantly, his fingers brushed the stems one last time, lingering on the leaves that were soon sure to die. Which was fine, really. Maybe when the last of the colorful plants finally died, the memories would die with them. He would be free from the burden of her. With a wistful smile, he turned and fled the room.

Every step of the stairs took him further from her. Pounding footsteps echoed around the stone walls. So that he might not hear her voice crying out after him, he focused on the sound of his feet. The confining stairwell expanded suddenly into the glorious, candlelit sanctuary. Even just standing in the room purged his wrongs from him, cleansed him of her. To be sure, he moved to the water basin standing sentry at the towering doors of the cathedral.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he mumbled, dipping his fingers in the water and raising them into a cross. As his hand crossed back to his heart, peace settled in his veins. The holy water absolved him of her. Without her, he could finally become all he was meant to be. Without her, he could be happy.

Leaving her with the flowers above, he strolled out of the church. He was free. For his own satisfaction, he even forced his path over the pavement where she’d fallen. He’d forgiven himself for his betrayal. Perhaps she would forgive him too.

Above, unseen, she watched him go – a ghostly figure observing from the window where he’d pushed her.

A/N: To be honest, this piece was written entirely as a joke. In fact, I had a hard time taking myself seriously with every word I put on the page. My good friend told me a “creepy” story the other night, which instantly provided inspiration for the title. From there, well, the rest is history. This piece is inspired by and dedicated to my old and dear friend, Tennessee Nathan Amerman. Dragon Roost Road is a fictional place, and somewhat an inside joke, but was the perfect setting for a ghostly misadventure.

“Tennessee Nathan” turned out to be quite the farce. I just needed an exercise of my own to do between editing jobs that didn’t involve getting too immersed in one of my major projects. It was silly and absurd, but I had fun. So why not share it? And who knows? Maybe the character, along with his trusty whip and hat, will make another goofy appearance somewhere down the line.

Tennessee Nathan was not afraid of things that go bump in the night. In fact, when he first heard the sound from the woods, he was immediately on the alert for adventure. He only paused before investigating to retrieve his trusty hat – given to him by an old friend – and his trusty whip – that had itself become an old friend.

The woods along Dragon Roost Road clustered together like a gossiping clique. They whispered otherworldly words amongst themselves and harbored shadowy secrets. Trying to peer through the shadows only made evident more shadows. Even straining his eyes, Tennessee Nathan could see no source for the strange sound.

A twig snapped loudly underfoot, and he winced at the betrayal of his position. The rustling grew louder, more agitated. Cautiously, his grip tightened on the coiled whip at his side and he stepped further into the trees. The rustling sounded uncomfortably like the shuffling of feet. Of course, there was always the chance that this could just be an average animal: rabbit, raccoon, fox. The daredevil in Tennessee Nathan hoped it would be more.

Suddenly, the shuffling stopped. Tennessee Nathan stopped with it. When there was no sound for the next few moments, he inched forward again. The animal loomed up out of the darkened brush before him. This was no ordinary woodland animal; this was a beast.

The hulking beast let out a spine-shaking roar and glared down at where Tennessee Nathan stood. It’s eyes burned the red of dying coals. It’s humped back was lined with jagged spines. It was a monster straight from the most horrid of nightmares.

Without further hesitation, the beast swung a wicked clawed hand toward Tennessee Nathan. He threw his whole body into a dodge, rolling away through the detritus. As he sprung to his feet, he reached for his whip, only to find that it was gone. Panicked, he looked around. There it lay in the rotting leaves where he had stood moments before. And there beside his trusty whip was his trusty hat.

“Confound it,” Tennessee Nathan muttered.

The beast’s growl rumbled in it’s caged chest, furious that Tennessee Nathan had avoiding it’s attack. Tennessee Nathan was no stranger to tense situations. Using his honed adventuring mind, he fumbled to find something in the woods around him to use as a weapon. He wandering hands clasped on a think branch and, with a handsome feat of strength, he ripped the branch free.

With a grunt, he hurled the branch at the beast. The wood passed right through the monster’s head, just between the eyes. Of course, it was a ghost beast. What else was to be expected in the woods this late at night?

Thankfully, his whip was also endowed with ancient magic. If only he could reach it.

The beast swung another large fist at Tennessee Nathan. If the adventurer had any window of opportunity, it was now. He spun from the massive hand, then launched himself above the beast’s arm. Tennessee Nathan recovered in a roll mere feet from the twisted claws.

Before the monster could move – it’s reflexes were absurdly slow –Tennessee Nathan yanked the whip from where it lay on the ground, cracking it once to show he meant business. Then, casually, he stooped to pick up the hat, placing it fluidly on his head. Now he was ready.

With the trained, elegant grace of an expert whip-wielder, he cracked the weapon around his head, sending sounds like gunshots echoing through the trees. The trees ceased their whispering. Even the shadows turned to watch the events unfold.

With a mighty snap of his wrist, he sent the whip flying forward. It curled around the creatures arm and pulled tight. As Tennessee Nathan pulled, the whip began to glow. As the whip began to glow, it also began to sever the beasts ghostly flesh. The arm tore off and vanished into a cloud of ethereal smoke.

The beast bent to Tennessee Nathan’s height and roared, pained and agitated. He looked like he meant to charge Tennessee Nathan in a final show of strength. The gust of air from the roar alone almost knocked Tennessee Nathan off his feet. It certainly knocked the hat off his head. With a cluck of his tongue, Tennessee Nathan commanded the whip to return to him, only to send it flying back towards the monsters neck. It only wrapped once, but once was enough.

As Nathan yanked back on the whip, the ghostly beast exploded into purple smoke that dissipated into the shadows. A gasp echoed from the trees. Tennessee Nathan bent down to pick up his hat. Patiently, he dusted off the dead leaves from the brim. Then he rolled he hat back where it belonged and walked casually back to the house, undeterred by any other malicious creatures of the night.

No, Tennessee Nathan did not fear things that go bump in the night. Things that go bump in the night fear him.